More Good Than Harm
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Devil May Care tag: Do their sacrifices outweigh their mistakes?


**More Good Than Harm**  
K Hanna Korossy

"Dude," Dean said, trying to sift through the mop of hair to see where the blood had come from. "You've been out of the hospital, what, forty-eight hours? You seriously couldn't go a _few_ more days without bashing your melon in?"

There it was: the crust of dried blood around…an almost healed red spot. It was barely a bump. Huh, score another one for Zeke. Not that Sam could know that; Dean tore open an alcohol wipe with his teeth and dabbed at the dried blood as if cleaning an open wound.

"Not all of us are as awesome as you, Dean," Sam said dryly if tiredly from below the curtain of hair.

Right, because Sam still thought Dean had fought off Abaddon and then taken out the three demons menacing Sam all on his own. Yet another lie to add to the tally.

Dean shook his head. "Too old to stitch, but it's not too bad. Guess this jungle you call hair is good for hiding scars, at least."

"You get tossed into more walls than I do, man—maybe you should grow yours out then, too. Or stop heckling the bad guys all the time…"

Dean tilted up the shaggy head, studying the hazel eyes even as he said absently, "Hey, you gotta make work fun, or it just turns into a job."

He mentally replayed what he said when he saw Sam's expression turn serious. Yeah, he winced, hadn't really meant it like that. Not after the guilt trip the young hunter they'd met that day had laid on Sam.

"Hey, what Tracy said…"

Sam was already shaking his head. "Don't." He shifted contritely at whatever he saw in Dean's face. "I mean…you're right, okay? Yeah, I let out Lucifer, and we pulled Metatron into this, and I did some stuff I'm not proud of when I was soulless. But…we stopped the Apocalypse and Lucifer, and Eve and Azazel and the Leviathan, and a helluva lot of other stuff we didn't start. We've lost," he shook his head heavily, "just about everybody. I've been in the Cage, you've been in Hell and Purgatory. I don't know, man, but it kinda feels like we've tilted the scales back, you know? We're in a good place now."

Dean rocked back on his heels to think about that, and winced as his arm bumped the surgical tray.

Sam hopped off the table. "At least I'm in a good place—I'm pretty sure your arm isn't. C'mon, up."

"I'm not a dog," Dean grumbled, but he obediently hitched up on the spot Sam had just vacated. "It's just a strain."

"Uh-huh," Sam said skeptically as he eyed Dean worming out of his shirt. Which, okay, yeah, hurt like a son of a bitch, but it wasn't like he was a delicate flower; some part of him usually hurt.

Dean scowled but didn't argue when, by the time he reached his t-shirt, Sam got impatient and grabbed the shears. Now that they actually had bureaus and closets, they each had more than one or two extra pairs of things, and he could afford a lost shirt. Besides, just because he was used to the pain didn't mean he wanted to wallow in it.

Sam hissed as he studied the swollen joint. "When you said Abaddon twisted your arm to find out where Crowley is…"

"I meant literally," Dean grunted, flinching as Sam prodded the socket.

"I'm surprised she didn't pop it." They'd gotten a couple of full-body resets, Dean most recently when Cas had healed him after first beating him to a pulp in the crypt, but some things seemed to remain with them, like Dean's loose shoulder joint.

"She did. I popped it back before I went in after you."

Sam leaned back, frowning. "Seriously? After Abaddon just took off because of some holy water? Dude, you weren't kidding about the awesome."

"Tracy had some with her, too." Another lie. He'd lost count, but these little ones didn't seem to matter at all whenever Sam's eyes flared blue and it wasn't his brother looking out through them anymore.

"Huh," Sam said as he dug in one of the infirmary cabinets. He sounded just shy of doubtful; he was having trouble with the story and yet had seen the proof of it. The big brain was working hard.

"We almost closed Hell," Dean said quickly, anxious to get Sam onto a different track. "Almost lost you doing it. That's gotta count for something, too."

Sam's smile was rueful as he turned back with a chemical ice pack and a sling. "Not sure how much it counts if we didn't actually do it."

Dean tried not to fidget as Sam snapped the pack and molded it over Dean's shoulder. "I say we totally get points for effort."

Sam eased the sling in place with so much care and experience that Dean barely felt it. It also trapped the ice pack in place, and the cold was already starting to penetrate the abused muscles and take the edge off. Sam was watching him carefully, and Dean showed his relief for once. Mission accomplished: that little furrow between his brother's eyes disappeared.

Sam tilted his head. "Shower, food, or bed?"

"Bed," Dean groaned, sliding to his feet. He didn't ignore Sam's helping hand, but batted away the painkillers he held out. "I'm okay."

"Dude, don't be an idiot—you need some muscle relaxers or you're gonna be locked up tomorrow."

He hated it when Sam was right about something like this. Dean sighed dramatically and plucked the pills out of the wide palm, tossing them back. "Satisfied?" he asked as he dry-swallowed.

"Almost." Sam held out a water bottle.

He only took it because he was thirsty. Dean drained half the bottle, then tossed it back to Sam, who bobbled it a moment before gripping it. That never stopped being funny, and Dean grinned tiredly at his brother's eye-roll.

Sam flipped off the infirmary light as they walked out, and Dean got the library main switch. One of the table lamps was still on, but a little light could be a very good thing in their job. They strode on toward the hall where the bedrooms were, bumping shoulders briefly when Dean let fatigue drag his gait. Sam didn't look at him, but he stayed close enough that Dean would hit him before he hit the ground if he went down.

His brother paused with him at the first door: Dean's room. "You want some help getting those off?" he nodded at Dean's boots.

Dean smirked at him. "That's what she said."

"Ass," Sam retorted mildly, but he still waited until Dean shook his head and opened his room door. He hesitated a moment more. Then, "'Night, Dean," and he moved on to his room.

"'Night, bitch," Dean mumbled back. He shut the door, and slumped for a moment against it in the dark, picturing the distance to his bed before he stumbled over.

Thank God for memory foam. He sank into the mattress with a sigh of pleasure. He really didn't care about the boots, and there was enough blanket to wrap himself in without getting up. Maybe if he played his cards right, Sam would bring him breakfast in bed and Dean wouldn't have to get up again. Of course, Sam would have to make a diner run; even his eggs were a travesty. He could make decent toast and coffee, and that was about it.

Dean sighed again, feeling himself sink a little more as he settled, body and mind. Because what Sam had said…

Yeah, they'd stopped the Apocalypse. And Yellow-Eyes, and Dick, and a whole bunch of other powerful bad guys who wanted to use the planet as their ashtray. But Dean had been the one to break the Seals that started the Apocalypse countdown in the first place. He hadn't let Sam finish closing Hell. He'd spent time there himself because he'd been too weak to face a life without his brother. And still he'd lost Sam over and over: to Azazel's special soldier, to addiction, to the Cage. He'd seen his brother dead, crazy, soulless, and broken. And now he was possessed without even knowing it.

Maybe Sam was in a good place—or just thought he was, because Dean had tainted even that—but no matter how hard he tried, no matter how happy his brother seemed now, Dean wasn't there with him. He was dragging along too many secrets and lies to reach it.

 _You are doing the right thing,_ Zeke had said.

Dean just hoped that when the time came, his love and good intentions would outweigh those secrets and lies in Sam's eyes.

 **The End**


End file.
